Mr. Murder

be harsh with the detective. “You make it seem as if Marty’s the one who broke into somebody’s home and tried to strangle them to death.”

Marty said, “Do you have men searching the neighborhood, have you put out an APB?”

“An APB?”

Marty was irritated by the detective’s intentional obtuseness. “An APB for The Other.”

Frowning, Lowbock said, “For the what?”

“For the look-alike, the other me.”

“Oh, yes, him.” That wasn’t actually an answer, but Lowbock went on with his agenda before Marty or Paige could insist on a more specific reply: “Is the Heckler and Koch another one of the weapons you purchased for research?”

“Heckler and Koch?”

“The P7. Fires nine-millimeter ammunition.”

“I don’t own a P7.”

“You don’t? Well, it was lying on the floor of your office upstairs.”

“That was his gun,” Marty said. “I told you he had a gun.”

“Did you know the barrel on that P7 is threaded for a silencer?”

“He had a gun, that’s all I knew. I didn’t take time to notice if it had a silencer. I didn’t exactly have the leisure to catalogue all its features.”

“Wasn’t a silencer on it, actually, but it’s threaded for one. Mr. Stillwater, did you know it’s illegal to equip a firearm with a silencer?”

“It’s not my gun, Lieutenant.”

Marty was beginning to wonder if he should refuse to answer any more questions without an attorney present. But that was crazy. He hadn’t done anything. He was innocent. He was the victim, for God’s sake. The police wouldn’t even have been there if he hadn’t told Paige to call them.

“A Heckler and Koch P7 threaded for a silencer—that’s very much a professional’s weapon, Mr. Stillwater. Hitman, assassin, whatever you want to call him. What would you call him?”

“What do you mean?” Marty asked.

“Well, I was wondering, if you were writing about such a man, a professional, what are the various terms you’d use to refer to him?”

Marty sensed an unspoken implication in the question, something that was getting close to the heart of whatever agenda Lowbock was promoting, but he was not quite sure what it was.

Apparently Paige sensed it, too, for she said, “Exactly what are you trying to say, Lieutenant?”

Frustratingly, Cyrus Lowbock edged away from confrontation again. In fact, he lowered his gaze to his notes and pretended as if there had been nothing more to his question than casual curiosity about a writer’s choice of synonyms. “Anyway, you’re very lucky that a professional like this, a man who would carry a P7 threaded for a silencer, wasn’t able to get the best of you.”

“I surprised him.”

“Evidently.”

“By having a gun in my desk drawer.”

“It always pays to be prepared,” Lowbock said. Then quickly: “But you were lucky to get the best of him in hand-to-hand combat, too. A professional like that would be a good close-in fighter, maybe even know Tae Kwon Do or something, like they always do in books and movies. ”

“He was slowed a little. Two shots in the chest.”

Nodding, the detective said, “Yes, that’s right, I remember. Ought to’ve brought down any ordinary man.”

“He was lively enough.” Marty tenderly touched his throat.

Changing subjects with a suddenness meant to be disconcerting, Lowbock said, “Mr. Stillwater, were you drinking this afternoon?”

Giving in to his anger, Marty said, “It can’t be explained away that easily, Lieutenant.”

“You weren’t drinking this afternoon?”

“No.”

“Not at all?”

“No.”

“I don’t mean to be argumentative, Mr. Stillwater, really I don’t, but when we first met, I smelled alcohol on your breath. Beer, I believe. And there’s a can of Coors lying in the living room, beer spilled on the wood floor.”

“I drank some beer after.”

“After what?”

“After it was over. He was lying on the foyer floor with a broken back. At least I thought it was broken.”

“So you figured, after all that shooting and fighting, a cold beer was just the thing.”

Paige glared at the detective. “You’re trying so hard to make the whole business sound silly—”

“—and I wish to hell you’d just come right out and tell us why you don’t believe me,” Marty added.

“I don’t disbelieve you, Mr. Stillwater. I know this is all very frustrating, you feel put-upon, you’re still shaken up, tired. But I’m still absorbing, listening and absorbing. That’s what I do. It’s my job. And I really haven’t formed any theories or opinions yet.”

Marty was certain that was not the truth. Lowbock had carried with him a set of fully formed opinions when he’d first sat down at the dining-room table.

After draining the last of the Pepsi in the mug, Marty said, “I almost drank some milk, orange juice, but my throat was so sore, hurt like hell, as if it was on fire. I couldn’t swallow without agony. When I opened the refrigerator, the beer just looked a lot better than anything else, the most refreshing.”

With his Montblanc pen, Lowbock was again doodling on one corner of a page in his notebook. “So you only had that one can of Coors.”

“Not all of it. I drank half, maybe two-thirds. When my throat was feeling a little better, I went back to see how The Other . . . how the look-alike was doing. I was carrying the beer with me. I was so surprised to see the bastard gone, after he’d looked half dead, the can of Coors just sort of slipped out of my hand.”

Even though it was upside-down, Marty was able to see what the detective was drawing. A bottle. A long- necked beer bottle.

“So then half a can of Coors,” Lowbock said.

“That’s right.”

“Maybe two-thirds.”

“Yes.”

“But nothing more.”

“No.”

Finishing his doodle, Lowbock looked up from the notebook and said, “What about the three empty bottles of Corona in the trash can under the kitchen sink?”

3

“Rest area, this exit,” Drew Oslett read. Then he said to Clocker, “You see that sign?”

Clocker did not reply.

Returning his attention to the SATU screen in his lap, Oslett said, “That’s where he is, all right, maybe taking a leak in the men’s room, maybe even stretched out on the back seat of whatever car he’s driving, catching a few winks.”

They were about to go into action against an unpredictable and formidable adversary, but Clocker appeared unperturbed. Even though driving, he seemed to be lost in a meditative state. His bearlike body was as relaxed as that of a Tibetan monk in a transcendental swoon. His enormous hands rested on the steering wheel, the thick fingers only slightly curled, maintaining the minimum grip. Oslett wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the big man was steering the car mostly with some arcane power of the mind. Nothing in Clocker’s broad, blunt-featured face indicated that he knew what the word “tension” meant: pale brow as smooth as polished marble; cheeks